I’m a bit lazy.
I rarely ponder on the occasions of wonder,
for simplicity is what I strive.
But when tasked to wander
Through the surface of my mind,
I feel obliged to type into a blank sheet
Whilst slipping a warm glass of toxins.
But once in a while these wonders occur
and I’m here wondering whether my habits
and my fingers
will roll into place as I want them to be
and play a note of sonder to a passerby that is here to stay.
But then these wonders become regular and become a routine
and then these wonders become a habitual incantation
that may be changing me.
And then I ponder on these wonders
whether simplicity is what I strive.
Through infatuated moments I
sought a difference. But still,
I’m a bit lazy.
She sings the harp like a woolen choir,
Near round corners along with a young boy’s leap,
Near Pilgrims that lack sleep.
They hide under the sun like an underground orchestra
With each of them slipping between prayers.
With each of them walking by,
you won’t realize their real lies
through voices of unknown and voices of the vivid.
Yet, the chaotic harmony brings a peace at heart,
a peace that only silent dusk can bring.
With a deep yawn and warm sigh,
and glistening yellows, blues, and blacks,
I surrendered myself to the sleep I brought along.
With chimes and rings, walked the muddy path
Back to another road filled with slow asphalt.
When I consider everything that grows
Holds perfection, but for a moment.
The petals of the rose,
There are no words to comment.
The perpetual beauty
Doesn’t last forever,
It’s not like it’s on duty
And it can collapse whenever.
Beauty is not eternal
And that’s why it’s exquisite.
Nothing gold can stay but the things that are internal
And the inconsequential sequences of our visit.
It cannot ace the test of time and so it turns infernal
So we tear a petal off of the rose and store it in out journal.